That's Entertainment!
by littlesoprano
Summary: A few months post NFA, the newly-restored Fang Gang shows Illyria how to have fun in the modern world. Watch out, Los Angeles. Spillyria, Fresley
1. Where an Old One Can Be a Kid

Disclaimer: Not mine, they're Joss Whedon's. We know this, so I'll move on.

Author's Notes: This is the first chapter in a little story series; each chapter will probably stand on its own. It takes place a few months post-"Not Fade Away," but I don't deal with how they won the battle or how Illyria got back her powers, Wes, Fred, etc. It's not important to this particular kind of story. Angel and Lorne lived, too, but I don't know if they'll be making appearances yet or not.

That's Entertainment?!

Chapter 1: Where an Old One Can Be a Kid!

"We've got a big, big problem," Charles Gunn announced to his companions, staring at the smoldering wreck of smashed metal behind him—and, more importantly, at the demon who stood gloating over the handiwork. "Wes, you plannin' on stepping in here?"

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce met Gunn's concern with a hint of an amused smile. "I really don't think this is my arena anymore," he replied, amusement full-blown. "Perhaps we'd better ask Spike."

"Spike is outside," the demon spoke in a flat, superior voice—her usual voice, in fact. "There was a sign on the door of this establishment which read 'No Pets,' so I was forced to stow him in our vehicle until I could determine for his safety." The demoness Illyria looked vaguely displeased by it all, then turned her gaze onto a more satisfactory sight—the still-smoking remains of a Whack-A-Mole game. The battered mallet, snapped loose from its cord, dangled from one gloved hand.

Wesley choked back a snicker and didn't correct her; he only quietly motioned for Gunn to retrieve Spike. Ever since Illyria had managed to restore him to life and voluntarily bring back Fred in the process, she had seemed to expect virtual back flips of gratitude from all involved. It had made her nearly impossible to live with, only magnified by the fact that she'd regained all her powers and saved their tail ends in the Hyperion alley battle. All that said, it was generally the best course of action to play along with her whims… which was the reason she, Fred, Gunn, and himself were in this blasted Chuck E. Cheese place to begin with. The flickering lights and sounds heralding the entrance to the building had proved far too intriguing to the demoness, and she'd announced in no uncertain terms that she wished to grace the establishment with her presence—her words, of course. For an ageless god-king, she really could behave like a perfect child at times. It was all part of her strange charm, Wesley supposed.

Charm or no charm, he was relieved to see Spike coming through the door some quick moments later. The vampire stopped to scan his surroundings, noticing immediately that every man, woman, and child in the place was not only staring soundlessly at the far corner of the room, but was huddled in the corner directly opposite. A strong odor of burning circuitry and human fear permeated the air.

Ruination and near-panic—two definite earmarks of what he and the gang had taken to calling an "Illyria Incident."

"Can't take her anywhere," he muttered, but a fond smile took away any harshness in his words. He loved his little Illy like mad, even if she did have a way of turning their every public outing into a three-ring circus. It all came with being in love with an Old One, he guessed... and besides, he'd never really considered a talent for destruction a fault. Quite the opposite, really.

She was all too eager to describe the situation for him when he arrived at her side. "These mechanical rodent-like creatures were taunting me, making a mockery of my power with their insolent chirping and raising of heads. I have given them what they deserved," she summarized, sounding monumentally pleased with herself. As usual.

"Yeah, but 's a game, Illy," he explained, only to have his statement met with an uncomprehending tilt of her head. Got him every time, that did. "Y' know, like Crash Bandicoot?" A slight frown creased her countenance at that. "Never mind—bad example." He winced as he remembered exactly how bad. How many X-boxes had he gone through now? Five? Six? His Illy was many good things—but a good loser was _not_ one of them.

_Come to think of it_, the platinum-blond vampire mused, "_taking her to this place might have been a very, very bad idea…"_

It was, unfortunately, a little late for that revelation. What Spike had on his hands now was one ruined game, one very difficult ex-goddess, and a roomful of terrified people who were about two seconds away from major panic. The vampire had enjoyed plenty of mayhem in his day and part of him was plenty content to just let it come now, but his companions were sure to disapprove, and much as he hated to admit it, he felt a bit sorry for the poor sods who were probably permanently traumatized by Illyria's impromptu show. Just kids, and all that. Really, this soul was making him entirely too soft. Still and all, it was probably better to just convince Her Royal Blueness to backward-time-warp this whole mess away and be done with it… but convincing Illyria wasn't the easiest thing to do. It was usually accomplished, Spike had noticed, by giving her a way to take on the idea as her own.

He had other, much better ways. Or more fun, at any rate. Clearly, it was time to put them into affect.

"Come on, now," he coaxed her suavely, pressing in nice and close. Illyria's defiant look didn't disappear, but she at least dropped the mallet. Right onto his foot, granted, but she dropped it. Unperturbed, he got in closer, hoping to melt a little of the smugness off that blue-rimmed face of hers.

It worked. Too well. Illyria's eyes widened.

"You seek to initiate a mating ritual?" she announced at about eighty-six decibels. Of course, the room _would be_ conveniently dead silent. Her proclamation couldn't have been louder if she'd used an intercom.

For about five eternally long seconds the crowd stood in dropped-jaw quiet. It was too much. Fred started giggling, Wesley cleared his throat, and more than a few mothers clapped hands over their children's eyes and ears. A lone voice rang out from the far corner of the room, it's owner a pigtailed girl, aged six at most.

"Mommy, what's a mating ritual?"

--------------------

"I have done as you asked," Illyria informed Spike five minutes later—or was it five minutes _back_? Whatever the case, she looked as if she'd been colossally put upon. "And now I want to see this 'ball pit' of which you spoke."

_Bribed her with, more like_, Spike thought, secretly miffed that he'd been reduced to such a measure but more disoriented than anything. Traveling backward through time wasn't exactly easy on the stomach, though Illyria had told him he would get used to the sensation as he did it more often. He'd held to Illyria as she skipped them back (or rather, she'd held onto _him_) and so was aware of the change, whereas the others in the room were milling about in happy ignorance. The Whack-A-Mole machine stood whole and un-charred, though the vampire made a mental note to keep Illyria out of its vicinity. No need for a repeat performance.

"'S right here, luv," he replied, bringing her alongside the netted walls of the ball pit. She observed as noisy children jumped and played, sending the bright colored plastic balls flying about the enclosure.

"But for the human pupae wriggling in its depths, it pleases me," she smiled in satisfaction, and strode up to the inflatable stairs that led to the entrance. A young employee stopped her in mid-stride. He was clearly nervous, either from her martial appearance or the fact that he was having a hard time not staring blatantly at her leather skinsuit.

"I'm sorry," he gulped, "but you're too tall..umm.. ma'm." He gestured to the ruler beside the entrance in a weak defense.

Spike let out a low whistle. Round two of the fireworks show in five... four... three...

"But I wish to swim in the round, multi-colored spheres!" Illyria demanded, sounding almost petulant. Spike knew it wouldn't last long. The boy was cruising full-speed towards the headache of his life, if not a chiropractor.

"I'd let her do it, mate," he added confidentially, his smile bemused. Nevertheless, the young man looked only lightly less intimidated by him than he did by Illyria. He probably recognized that they were a pair. Spike fancied it was the aura of mystery and battle-glory that surrounded them. Or perhaps it was just the fact that they both had a yen for wearing leather.

The poor employee waffled. "Okay," he almost squeaked. "She's probably way under the weight limit, anyway." God-king or not, Illyria looked like she weighed a good twelve pounds sopping wet, and even that was mostly her impossibly clunky boots. Those presented a problem.

Illyria nodded and made for the door. "But...umm... could you take your boots off?" the employee asked hesitantly.

"These are my war boots. With them I have crushed the bones of my enemies, danced over the..."

"An' now you've gotta take them off, of you'll be smashing up the kiddies," Spike cut in, stopping what was probably the makings of an endless speech. "Can't have that." His demoness raised an eyebrow.

Nevertheless, in less than a minute, the boots were in the cubby—taking up three spaces—and Illyria was happily ensconced in the ball pit.

It looked like he had some influence, after all. If he could just keep her away from any kind of competitive gaming-- and the animatronic stage show-- everything would be fine…

--------------------

"Okay, English, beat that!" Gunn crowed as the lights flashed atop his Skee-ball machine. "High score!"

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Wes asked dreamily, managing to pull his gaze away from Fred for a full two seconds. It seemed to be a major accomplishment. Barely glancing over, he sent a Skee-ball of his own down the lane, where it landed haphazardly through the 'thirty' slot. It would have been a fine score… where it not in the slot two lanes down from his own.

Gunn gave a good-humored shake of his head. "Pathetic," he said half to himself. Not that he didn't understand Wesley's feelings over having Fred back, but really—all those two needed were some cartoony hearts and flowers around their heads and a violinist following them around. He didn't care if they _were_ newlyweds, it was just plain mushy. He was sure that _he'd_ never acted that way with Fred…

When he realized he had, the joke he'd been about to make at Wes' expense died on his lips, and instead he bent to retrieve a long length of prize tickets from his machine.

At least Fred's romantic leanings didn't seem to be affecting her game. Rattling off what sounded like a mixture of advanced physics terminology and several mathematical equations, she calculated the angle needed to roll the Skee-ball up the slope, as well as the ideal velocity. Eight easily-rolled Skee-balls later, she'd thoroughly creamed the two men, leaving Gunn frowning and Wesley as adoring as ever.

"Math is everything," she smiled proudly.

Spike favored a more physical approach, himself.

"See, now, there's a technique to this," he explained to Illyria, who looked mildly interested. "Now you take the ball… no, not that one," he corrected as she held up a badly squashed blue plastic ball she'd swiped from the ball pit. Shrugging, she tossed it away, where it landed among hundreds of others on the floor. How she'd ever managed to splash all of them out of that netting he'd never figure out…

"I understand," she stated, taking up one of the brown, well-worn Skee-balls and testing its weight in her hand. She smiled. Then before Spike could stop her she was rearing back into prime major-league pitching position—

"No, luv, you're s'posed to _roll_ it— " Before his sentence was out the ball had left her hand in a blur of motion. There was a slight crash, a splintering of wood. Then a car alarm going off far down the street, accompanied by a tinkling of glass. Silence, for a moment, followed by the distant sound of a dog barking.

Spike's mouth quirked. "Why roll it when you can throw it, eh?"

Gunn nodded, inwardly thinking that they should never, _ever_ take her bowling.

The spectacular throw even jerked the two lovebirds out of tunnel vision. Wes stared.

Fred just shrugged. "Look, she got a fifty."

Illyria lifted her head in proud acceptance of the compliment, a self-satisfied little smile on her lips. Spike loved that smile; he often wore a similar look himself. He was just thinking of maybe giving his favorite goddess a congratulatory kiss when a whirring sound emitted by the game stole her attention.

A single pink prize ticket emerged from its slot. Illyria's eyes flared.

"This machine is insolent!" she thundered. "It is sticking out its tongue appendage! Is this not a gesture of disrespect in your culture?"

Without further ado and without waiting for an explanation from her companions, she yanked at the ticket-tongue. It shot free satisfactorily, the strength of her pull sending reams upon reams of tickets spooling out through the slot. Illyria, ankle-deep in enemy 'tongue-appendages,' was vindicated.

She was even happier when Spike informed her she could trade in her battle-spoils for a prize.

--------------------

The gang tried not to laugh when Illyria returned from the prize booth, but it was just too hard not too. Fred, but for Spike, was the least intimated by Illyria, and she laughed openly. Wes tried to mask his amusement with well-timed coughs, while Gunn covered his mouth and did his best.

She was holding a giant blue stuffed octopus.[1]

The irony, cleary, was lost on no one.

But they were surprised, a moment later, when she presented her prize to Spike.

He, oddly enough, didn't look surprised. "Aw, see—I knew you cared," he teased her, trying to hold onto the gargantuan stuffed animal. It was half as big as he was, at least.

And when they were nearly to the door, leaving the place at last, he took it a bit further. He wasn't teasing so much, this time.

"You love me, Blue, admit it."

The former goddess turned to meet his eyes, her head tipping in that curious way. He waited. When she did speak, her words were halting and almost foreign-sounding, but he could tell she meant it.

"Yes," she said slowly, as if she was trying out the words. "I – love-- you."

That was all he needed to hear. Spike, with a half-arrogant grin, put his arm around her, and thought to himself that he wouldn't have changed their night for anything.

* * *

[1] For those of you who may have missed "Shells," (I am kicking myself for not taping it!) we see in that episode a picture of Illyria in her native form. She has a scary-looking gladiator-type helmet, an almost insect-like middle, talons, and many tentacles that wrap around and also form four arms. The effect is more like a snake than an octopus, but I figured it was close enough.


	2. The Duel of the Fates

Author's Notes:  Thank you very much to those of you who have reviewed and e-mailed.  A special thanks goes out to my friend DaphFlamm, who has been an immense help on this fic and has never seen an "Angel" ep!

Chapter 2:  The Duel of the Fates

"You see, I _knew_ this was going to happen!"  Angel exclaimed.  "This was a bad idea.  I don't know how many times I've told you…"

            Spike cut off what was surely the beginning of a sanctimonious speech with a disgusted sigh.  "Relax, Peaches—they can take care of themselves."  Upon further consideration, he gave a little shrug.  "So it might get a bit messy."

            He lowered himself into a cushioned booth, wanting a front-row seat for the proceedings.  Around him clustered the rest of the newly-restored Fang Gang, all leaning forward in their seats and holding their breath in nervous anticipation.     

The god-king of the primordium and the Texas Twig had just declared war.

"So it has come to this," Illyria stated, staring down her opponent with an almost coldly casual air.

            "Yep," replied Fred just as evenly, drawing out a long, serrated knife.  "I'll cut, you choose."

            "Your terms are reasonable."

            Fred boldly reached out with the knife… and in one lightning-fast flick of her wrist she expertly sliced an extra-large, double-stuffed pepperoni pizza into two equal, cheese-smothered halves.

            The question that had haunted and perplexed the group was finally to be answered.  At long last they would know which of two virtual bottomless pits could eat more food—and it was to be decided with an eating contest to end all contests, right here in the epic battleground called Pizza Hut.

            "I do not need to partake of deceased animal and plant matter in order to function," Illyria informed them all grandly.       

"And there goes my appetite," Gunn muttered to himself, unceremoniously dropping his piece of pizza back onto his plate.

"Oh, please," Fred smirked at her demon opponent.  "I didn't see that stopping you from attacking that box of Krispy Kremes last week.  You're just trying to cover up so when you lose you'll have an excuse."

"You know nothing of my motivations!"

"I was trapped inside you for three months.  Trust me, I know."

Illyria had to give her that one.

Fred leaned forward on her elbows, smiling her sweetest smile.  "So put it where your mouth is."

Indignant, Illyria's eyes flew wide open, and she gave a very regal sniff.

"Ohhhh boy," Lorne said, letting out a long whistle.

            The slighted demoness eyed the two halves of the pie in front of her… and then in a flash of movement took up a personal-sized pizza from a neighboring table and put the entire thing into her mouth.  All eyes were glued to the visible progress of the pizza as it traveled whole down her throat. 

            "Aw, man—that's just not right!"  Gunn exclaimed, feeling a bit queasy.  It had reminded him of those nature programs on PBS—those horrible ones where snakes gulped down some rodent five times their size.

            Fred went a little pale.  Illyria just looked on, supremely satisfied, and started in on a slice of pepperoni pie.

            "Her jaw… it just sort of _unhinged_," Angel said, goggle-eyed.

            "It is a remnant of my native form," Illyria informed him around her mouthful of pizza. The haughty words lost quite a bit of their grandeur, rendered totally incomprehensible by her stuffed-mouth condition. Spike had to laugh.  Finally, they'd stumbled on a way to end those never-ending brag-fests of hers.  Honestly, she could speechify twice as well as Angel.

            Actually, he knew one other way, but the fact that she was dribbling melted cheese down her chin ruled out any kissing possibilities for the time being.

            Fred, watching Illyria's attempt at a coup d'etat, grabbed a breadstick and bit down—hard.

--------------------

            About a half-hour later the two competitors were running even, having polished off two full pies, a basket of breadsticks apiece, and at least three pitchers of cola.  Spike wondered if he should say something—Illyria on a sugar-high just didn't seem like a keen idea.  Nah—more fun that way.  

            Their audience had grown considerably, too.  The epic battle of goddess vs. physicist had attracted the entire restaurant, aided by Lorne's dramatic play-by-play of the events.  Particularly interested was the table full of male teenagers from whom Illyria had "borrowed" the personal pizza earlier.             

"Those cretins are lusting after me," she told Spike, not sounding particularly disturbed—but definitely indicating that he should be doing something about the situation.

            " 'S the leather, Blue," he explained, smiling and wiping some pizza sauce off her nose with a napkin.  "Reckon they can't help themselves."

            "Or it could be the fact that she put their entire pizza into her mouth," Wes murmured under his breath.

--------------------

Two hours and some twelve-odd pizzas later….

            Wes was rubbing Fred's stomach—quite possibly it was the first time she'd ever had a visible one—looking very much like an anxious labor coach.  Fred's face was a definite greenish shade, but she was pluckily eating along.  Spike's vampiric reflexes kept his own love from falling face-forward into a pizza.  She shook off his assistance and managed another two bites of Veggie Lovers.  Her leather skinsuit creaked in protest. 

            They really couldn't hold out much longer, but they were at a dead tie.  Someone had to give.

            "I blame this on you," Illyria groaned, looking queasily towards Fred.  "This shell is too weak and fragile."

            "Yeah, _so_ sorry about that whole hollowing-out-my-insides thing.  I didn't exactly have a sign up that said 'Open House, come on in,' you know."  There was less harshness in the words than probably one would expect—both of them had taken to blaming Knox for the whole event.  Better for group dynamics, that way.  Fred winced and held her stomach, making Wes jump nervously.  "That didn't feel a whole lot worse than this, actually."

            "Do you yield then?"  Illyria tried to sound commanding, but didn't quite pull it off.  Anyone could have sensed the hopefulness in her tone.

            Fred reached for the Cinna-sticks in reply.

--------------------

            Fifteen minutes later…

"Well, good news all—the place is out of pizza, out of side orders, out of any kind of carbonated beverage," Lorne announced, coming over the table from the ordering counter.  "Looks like a draw, ladies!"

            Fred and Illyria looked up at him, too crammed full of food to react.  Illyria resembled something approximating a turquoise hamster, what with a sickly green shade mixing with her blue tint and her cheeks all puffed out.  Oddly enough, the two combatants were leaning up against one another for support.

            "Awww, would you look at that," Lorne continued sentimentally.  "Over-dinner bonding."

--------------------

            Much, much later that night (or, the following morning…)      

            When Spike nipped into the drugstore a few blocks down from the Hyperion, he was surprised to meet Wesley there as well, half-awake, paying for an order at the counter.  He himself was used to keeping nocturnal hours and knew that Wesley was, too, so it was a further surprise to see the other Englishman completely blurry-eyed and tousle-haired, weaving on his feet.  The only explanation was that he'd been awakened unexpectedly from a very deep slumber.

            "Hey, Percy—what're you doing up past your bedtime?" he joked.

Wordlessly, Wes held up a bottle of Pepto Bismol.

"Ah."

"And you?"

            Spike produced a bottle of his own.  "Same.  'Cept 'm betting Fred didn't tell you to fetch her a bottle of 'oozing pink healing toxin.'"

            Wes gave a tired laugh.  "No, I can't say that she did."

            "Or threaten to crush every bone in your body if you didn't get it back in ten minutes."

            "No, not that either."

            "Well, 's all for effect, y'know," Spike continued offhand.  "Get past that an' she's right cuddly."

The two men stood in silence for a moment.  "You do realize you're whipped," Wesley finally came out.

            Spike's mouth twitched.  "Kinda the pot callin' the kettle black, idn't?"

            Wesley looked aghast.   "I'm not whipped!"

            "Right…. Least 'm man enough to own up to it.  And mine ruled the whole bleedin' _world_ once—make that _several_ bleedin' worlds—so I think I've got an excuse."  Wes seemed to be considering this.  "'Sides, Leery jerked you around by the nose well enough before all that business with the battle."

            "And before, you never allowed her to do it.  Until…"  He raised an eyebrow expectantly.

            "Yeah, I know, until I fell in love with her," Spike admitted, blurting the words.  "But we're both happy, aren't we?"

            The two men looked at one another in perfect understanding.


End file.
